


Hard covers versus fleeting moments

by nuntius



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Imagination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:07:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23650546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nuntius/pseuds/nuntius
Summary: i dont really know, imagery between hard cover books and online books
Kudos: 2





	Hard covers versus fleeting moments

Hard covers versus online books. It feels as though hard covers provide something final, something touchable, firm and existing, while online stories are like fleeting moments, dreams, some forgotten upon waking and remembered after a while, some forgotten forever while others hiding in plain sight in our minds.

  
Hard covers provide some sort of responsibility, something that weighs us down, even though the story ends well, or the pages contain no negativity whatsoever. As though by opening the book, reading the first page, then another, we are signing a contract, of what, I don't know, perhaps our soul? Since with every story we read we regain a missing piece of our soul, our chipped heart, with plenty others lose it. 

  
Do we read enjoy the sight of hard covers because it makes us feel like we're adults? Like we're humans, with our rights, our responisibilities and burdens, looking for some sort of relief for a few hours, or perhaps looking for something to bring out our emotions? Or do we read them because most of them have a face on them, have a known author, someone we can connect to reality which makes us feel as though whatever we're searching for is okay, is acceptable?

  
Because it feels more real?

  
And why do we read fanfiction, online books, stories by known and unknown authors, reading constantly as if we're addicted? Does it make us feel better the knowledge that what we read isn't real? Or is the thought of it being real in some faraway universe, alternate dimension, comforting? Is holding your phone, kindle, sitting in front of a screen and scrolling, easier than holding a physical book? 

  
Does it make us feel better, more secure, safe, that no one knows we read them unless we specifically tell someone or share it? That there's no one to check our our books, we're not in any system, our real name and other data there for whoever has access to see? Are we scared of being seen? 

  
Is there something different in having the letter reflected at our eyes accompanied by the bightness of our screens? Is there a different experience in reading anonymously? Do we enjoy things differently? Love them less, more, in a new way, just because they're on a different platform? Just because we stumbled upon a story that struck us deep between all others on a site many older people don't know? 

  
Is there a somewhat different process of understanding when we chase the letters on the screen versus capturing them between hard covers and not letting them out?

  
Are we searching for better days, reading, or are we looking at what could be, at all those what if's? Then, what if we're just souls stranded on a planet with enough resources to keep words close to our hearts, keep them in the palm of our hands, in the wrinkles at the corners of our eyes, in the dry skin on our knees, leeter by letter washed away with each scrub in the shower, with each layer os skin we shed?

  
Does it even matter hard covers versus online books? Does it even matter if a story is whispered in the dead of the night between two lovers, whether a child is hearing it before they fall asleep, if it's in a school corriculum, whether it's written in a letter, typed on a computer, whether someone pours their all in it or if someone let's their story simmer for a time before they allow others a glimpse, a dive into the universe they created?

  
Does anything really matter in the end, if what we see are pieces of souls of people, good, bad, small, big, but there nontheless, waiting to be read, to be judged and forgotten along with their brothers and sister, with other fleeting things.

  
Like life is fleeting, so is everything else, a blink of an eye and it all changes, a drop from a leaf to the forest floor and the people you knew, know you no more. 

  
So what even is the point of this piece? Did I write it because I'm bored, or am I searching for something? Did I write this because we humans, cannot help but dive deeper, from higher ground, break through with force as long as we can continue ourr development. Did I write this on a whim of a tired head, of sips from champagne opened a day ago, from the dark around me, begging me to fill it with something? Or maybe I just wonder what makes stories, whole worlds inside two hard covers, different, from those online, with no covers to protect, without the need to expose ourselves in a certain way such as our names or pictures. 


End file.
